


Incubo

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Frottage, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Rimming, Succubi & Incubi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2759930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond is left twiddling his thumbs off the Greek coast with nothing but the sun and a strange cave for company.<br/>That is... until Q shows up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Qualyn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Qualyn/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Incubo](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/87347) by hyraeth/ Quaelyn. 



To die: to sleep;   
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end   
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks   
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation   
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;   
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub.”   
― [William Shakespeare](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/947.William_Shakespeare), [ _Hamlet_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/1885548)

 

 

He wouldn’t go to sleep. It didn’t matter if he were as tired as tired could be, he had to stay awake. It was more than a point of just being alert. He was way past that. This was about protecting himself from himself, the whisper in the dark that had become too real. This place had gotten to him. The night cornered him in on all sides, had him at bay. But dogs at bay were dangerous and James Bond was an old dog.

He didn’t know how it began only when it began: it happened during the second week of his stay in the little cottage by the Mediterranean Sea. He was meant to only be here for three days, but there was a delay and headquarters insisted that he stay and wait until further information was available. At first, he had no complaint. The weather was beautiful, his view even more so. The cottage was a simple four-room affair that stood between the sea below the cliffs and under the shadow of the great white dome of the church above. Sunday he could hear the bells chiming as loudly as if he were in the bell tower itself.

On the fifth day, he discovered the recesses of the cave and by the seventh day he realized that the bells didn’t bother him when he was there. All one could hear was the sea. He began to spend more and more time in the cave, relishing its cool dampness out of the baking sun, the sound of the sea echoing in its depths like that of a giant nautilus.

It was of a moderate size and shape, hollowed out by the sea itself. As the waters receded in time, it left a soft sandy floor and a high cavernous ceiling. The mouth of it was wide enough for two – but only just – and tall enough for Bond to enter doubled-over. The entrance bottle-necked for a bit before flaring out to the right. Bond had taken a torch to explore it, expecting it to travel right under the cliffs itself, but ten feet inward, he came up short. It was simply a hollowed-out space with nowhere to go. He never used the torch in there again, the daylight providing enough illumination to be practical.

But it was cool and dry and held the smell of the sea, fresh and breezy. Once, Bond fell asleep in it and felt so relaxed upon waking he determined to have an afternoon kip there as often as he dared. However, his mission protocols determined that he needed to stay by the phone, so his sojourns to the cave were not as frequent as he liked. After a time, those naps became essential because they helped make up for the nights in the cottage.

That’s where the nightmares lived.

At first it was just your standard PTSD-brand of horror-fest: bodies covered in gore, the dead rising and accusing him of being a murderer, his uniform speckled with blood, children crying silently, standing, weeping, not moving, screaming _you did this you did this you did this_ \-  and a small chuckle of demonic laughter. Bond would awake standing in different places in the cottage, usually with something broken at his feet. Three bouts of sleepwalking/sleepfighting and he awoke the third time with a laceration in his arm that needed bandaging.

The afternoon following that, he was asleep in the cave after a swim and the dream came again: you killer! You murderer! And then Q’s voice: “Bond!” coupled with the screech of an animal.

He awoke with a start. He was getting sick of those dreams, but this time there was a new element: this time Q was there in the end, rousing him, arousing him. Q, beautiful boy, genius, master of snark, was the one to pull him out of the nightmare landscape and fold him into his arms (or were they wings?) calling his name and waking him out of his terror. Q was a comfort there.

Any other man would have never fallen asleep in that cave again. But Bond was not one to be cowed by anything so innocuous as his subconscious. Time and again he returned to the cave and slept for an hour, perhaps two, waking with chills and the sudden loss of comfort from Q. In a way, that was why he returned: comfort was rare in his line of work. He was happy to have someone around who understood his mind – even if they were only imaginary. Q always stepped in at the end to save him.

“Agent?” said a voice. The voice had been accompanied by a knock on his cottage door. He had taken to leaving it wide open for a breeze, the white walls and lemon yellow of the paint outside filled the whole house with reflective sunshine. The blue of the sea in the distance outside the southern window was a lovely contrast. “Are you at home?”

Bond looked up to see Q’s head in his doorway. “Q! Come in! What the devil are you doing here?”

“Headquarters sent me,” he said, running a hand through the riot of his hair, his feet at the threshold. “May I come in?”

“Of course,” said Bond and he rose from his chair to greet his quartermaster. “I thought you were afraid to fly.”

“There is the chunnel, 007,” said Q. “And I’m not afraid to drive. Granted, it took me a while, but I’m here and needing a rest anyway. For the second part of the mission you’ll need me running the op, so I thought I’d come and run it from here. Seemed a good excuse to get London out of my lungs for a bit.”

“Right,” said Bond slowly. There was something off about this. Q didn’t take holidays. Then it hit him: “M made you come, didn’t he?”

For a split second Q looked confused, then he admitted: “Yes, yes. Alright. M made me come.”

Bond chuckled. “I hope he supplied you with plenty of sun cream. You seem a bit too pale for sunny Greece.”

Q gave him a sour look as he took in the appointments of the cottage. “This seems adequate.”

“Adequate enough,” said Bond.

Q raised an eyebrow. “Oh right,” he said. “You’re not used to anything that doesn’t come embossed with your initials or gilded in gold leaf. This place must be a crushing disappointment then.”

It was Bond’s turn for the sour look. “It’ll do until I can get home again. Talking of which, when can I go home again, Q?”

“When we’re done here,” said Q cryptically. He absently wandered into the bedroom. “Yes, this will do nicely I think.”

“What do you mean, ‘do nicely’? You aren’t planning on staying here too, are you?”

“Budget cuts, 007,” said Q. “We all have to pitch in.”

“You must be joking,” said Bond. He crossed his arms and stared at Q as the man slowly opened each of his dresser drawers.

“I never joke when it comes to budgets, Commander Bond,” said Q. “I can see where this room would be ideal for the two of us.”

“What?”

Q turned to face him. “You and I. In this room. Sleeping. The bed is big enough for two and as I have no objections to sharing my bed with a trained killer, what possible problem could you have with sharing with me?”

“I-“ began Bond. His mouth shut on words he didn’t have. Facts were facts: if he had to share a bed with Q to finish this mission, there were worse options at hand. “Alright,” said Bond. “But I get that side and I tend to steal the covers.”

“That’s alright,” said Q. “At least neither of us snore.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first night with Q was strangely comfortable. It was nice having another presence in the house and Q was seemingly quiet in his habits, even though Bond was on a hair-trigger on his best days. He didn’t intentionally sneak about if he got up before Bond; he could hear the man clearly making tea every morning. If he had tried to sneak about, Bond would have reacted violently and Q, without even asking, seemed to be aware of that predilection.

He didn’t even seem to mind when, on the next day, he awoke to find that Q had wrapped an arm around him in the night. He could feel his warm breath on his neck and if he shifted back just a few… he swore he felt a half-hard erection in Q’s pants. Bond simply smiled at the effect he seemed to have on Q’s sleeping form and went back to snoozing until he felt Q wake, gingerly remove himself from Bond’s body, and shuffle off to the bathroom.

Neither man made mention of the unconscious cuddling.

Three days later and still the evenings were suffused with stifled tension until sleep took them both. And there were no dreams of any kind for Bond. Out of some subconscious trepidation he would sometimes delay his rest until he heard Q’s breath in the darkness slide into a comforting steady rhythm – and a light snore. Bond grinned at that and then he could sleep.

He awoke in the night to the sound of thunder and his thoughts drifted to the cave. He wondered if the water reached it during storms. He didn’t think it would. The cave never gave a hint of being wet at all, but he was sure the spray would make it. He looked over to Q in the lightning flash. His back was turned to him and he was tempted to wake him, to tell him about the cave, to urge him to get up and get dressed and follow him down the cliff to its hidden opening. He wanted to watch the storm with him in the mouth of that cave. He wanted to feel the spray against his face. He wanted to kiss the salt off of Q’s skin.

His eyes fluttered closed and for the first time in days, he dreamed. Q was soft against him. The sand was soft against his back, his soft hair in his hands, his soft mouth on his. He breathed in the salt air and tasted the tang of Q mixed with it. The press of Q against him was so welcome, so comforting. His hands were against his naked hips and _when did Q take off his clothes?_ No matter. The undulation of his hips was a sweet seduction to his cock which hardened with every press and release, a rhythmic pulse that echoed with his own heartbeat.

“Give yourself to me, James,” whispered Q. “Just let go.”

_Oh… Q…_

There was another kiss, sweeter than the first. It was instinct for Bond to lift his legs and allow his hardness to rest against his stomach, to let Q press his length along his balls and smooth it behind to the pucker underneath, an instinct to open and press toward it…

“Yes, James,” Q whispered, his breath hot on his ear, “that’s it. Let me have you. Let me _take_.”

There was a flash of lightning in his dream revealing Q’s teeth (sharp, pointed), his eyes (green, glowing), and his wings… his wings? Large and leathery spreading behind Q in a stygian background against Q’s alabaster skin; they were as black as his hair and _huge_. “Give yourself to me.”

Bond sat up screaming and covered in sweat.

“What the hell?” asked Q, jolting awake at the disturbance. “Jesus Bond! Are you alright?”

Bond fell out of the bed in his startled attempt to get away from Q. His back was against the wall, the window above him with the curtains open and the lightning flashing, revealing a sleep-tousled Q on all fours staring down at him, squinting without his glasses, peering into the dark at Bond’s terrified face. “Just leave me alone, Q,” Bond said, his heart racing, panicking as his legs carried him out of the room mechanically. Outside on the terrace off the sitting room, he gulped down the fresh air. It didn’t matter that he was getting soaking wet. It didn’t matter that the lightning and thunder cracked above him. He needed to go home. He needed escape.

“Bond?” asked Q from behind him. It was a small voice, but enough to make him push off the balcony edge and out the front door into the rain. He ran down the path, pebbles pinching at his feet, the rock rough under the thin layer of sand and dirt along the cliff face. The cave was dry as he had thought. He crawled inside and collapsed. Sleep took him immediately and there was no dream.

 

~080~

 

“What the hell was wrong with you?” asked Q when he returned the next morning. Bond was thankful that he had no neighbors along the cliff path to see him in just his boxers. Climbing the path was difficult enough without shoes; if he’d had an audience, he would have felt worse. He stepped into the sitting room and stared at Q as though he were a stranger. “And where the hell did you go last night in the middle of a thunder storm in just your smalls?” Q peered at him over a cup of tea. Tea sounded like heaven to Bond, but he was too concerned about getting showered and dressed. “You’re covered in sand and flea bites,” observed Q.

Bond looked down at the red bites along his skin and the sand all over him. “True,” said Bond.

“You slept on a beach, obviously, but what beach? There isn’t one for miles,” said Q. “Not a proper one anyhow.”

“Nevermind, Q,” said Bond and he moved past him to jump into the shower.

Twenty minutes later, he was dressed in loose-fitting clothing: t-shirt, cargo shorts, perfect for the heat of the day they were expecting. He toweled off his hair and came into the kitchen, his tummy rumbling for tea and toast. “So are you going to explain or do I have to write up a recommendation to psych for an evaluation?”

“Just let it go, Q,” said Bond. He filled the kettle and plugged it in. “I had a bad dream is all. I needed to clear my head.” He popped two slices of bread into the toaster.

“And so you ran out in your underpants, in the middle of a lightning storm, rain pelting down, to- where, exactly?” asked Q.

Bond leaned heavily on the counter and breathed. “I found a cave and I camped there for the night.”

“A cave,” repeated Q. He sipped at his tea and typed something on his tablet. “Right.”

‘What are you doing?” asked Bond.

“Hmm?” asked Q. In a moment of panic, Bond came around the counter and looked over Q’s shoulder. Q shielded the screen from his eyes. “Bond! They’re emails! And they’re private! Need to know basis and all that – I’m a quartermaster! I need to answer my emails. What in buggering hell is wrong with you?”

Bond backed off from him and took another breath. Q was turned in his seat and staring at him. There was a long moment of silence where all that could be heard was the faint sound of the sea. The toaster popped and scared the both of them. Bond exhaled in a huff that became a chuckle. He was never so tense as this. It was ridiculous. He scrubbed a hand over his face and moved to the toaster. “I think I’m just jumpy, Q.”

“Whatever for?” said Q, his brow furrowed. Bond glanced over his shoulder at him. His look made Bond want to ruffle his hair playfully.

“I just had a bad dream,” said Bond. “It stuck with me.”

Q shook his head. “When we get back, you’re going to Psych.” He began typing up the order.

“Q,” whined Bond.

Q held up a finger and never raised his eyes from the keyboard. “You are going and that’s an order, Agent Bond.”

Bond sighed and bit savagely into his toast, chewing and staring at the top of Q’s head. This mission better start back up soon, or Bond would find a way to have a bit of shooting practice – starting with Q’s tablet.

 

~080~

 

The cave proved to be an effective escape from Q and his incessant typing. When he wasn’t on his tablet, he was on his laptop. It was _clickety-clack_ all damn day and most of the night and Q didn’t hear a thing because most of the time he had noise-cancelling earphones big enough to say ‘fuck off’ to anyone even considering disturbing him.

The nights were no better. He hid his dreams from Q more subtly, but they still persisted. No matter how they began, they would end up with Q atop him, teeth bared, eyes aglow, claws catching. Then he would lay there listening to Q breathing beside him and wonder time and again whether or not to wake him and tell him of the awful thing that keeps happening. And then Q would turn or sigh in his sleep and Bond would think the better of it. Moonlight would catch on his somnolent face and Bond wouldn’t see a devil – quite the opposite. But that didn’t mean he went back for more restful sleep. He knew what awaited him behind his eyelids.

So the cave was a refuge. There was nothing there but the sea and his thoughts. He began taking small things down with him: a thermos of coffee, a torch, a towel, a fresh pair of clothes when he chose to go swimming. He found the expanse of water that sat just beneath the small projection of rock at the mouth of the cave to be deep enough to dive into. Climbing out took a bit of doing as he had to make his way just west of the cave to climb up safely and then come back along the path a bit to gain entry to the cave once again.

The water was a pristine azure blue, deeper than the sky, the temperature of bathwater. Many times Bond would just float there, staring at the mouth of the cave from the sea’s point of view. It was a hummingbird nest in the rocks, a dark point against the sun-bleached shore. If he swam out far enough, it was a single eye peeking at him from the skull of a great deformed beast. “Who are you?” he quoted to himself. “No one.”

He made swimming in the Mediterranean Sea part of his exercise regimen (which is what he told his curious and slightly exasperated quartermaster) and spent at least two hours a day swimming followed by a few more hours lazing in the sun atop a rock he found big enough for him to stretch out upon just a few meters above the cave entrance.

He would never sleep in the sun, however. He couldn’t. A plane would buzz overhead or the choir would be rehearsing in the church above the cliff and he would grunt and roll over, toasting the other side of himself nut brown. The best he could do was a light snooze – just enough to take the edge off of his nerves.

It was exhausting work to lie in the sun and swim all day and the need for activity was dire. His brain began to buzz and never settle. He worked and re-worked his original orders in his head to try and conceive of the delay. Q was no help. At first he hung about the quartermaster asking questions about his mission. Q would put him off telling him that when he knew anything Bond would be the first informed. But there was never any news. He had to do something. He resolved to ask Q for an assignment, something non-mundane, something non-crucial. He just needed to keep a hand in or he was going to go mad.

Perhaps he already was.

He awoke in the cave after dreaming the same old thing again: wings, claws, teeth… this time dispelled by the cry of some bird. Why did it keep happening? Why couldn’t he move? Why when the thing was so close to getting what it wanted did it reveal its true nature to him? If this thing wanted to fuck him, why didn’t it just keep on being Q? Wouldn’t that be simpler? And why, only in the cave, were the dreams dismissed by a screeching cry?

Bond shook his head and exited the cave, his towel over his arm and came nose-to-nose with his quartermaster.

“There you are,” said Q. He stood in a t-shirt and what appeared to be swim trunks. He had a towel over his shoulder and a wide-brimmed hat on his head. Sun cream was smeared white on his nose and he looked like a tourist.

Bond couldn’t help but laugh and was grateful for it. He was worrying himself into oblivion and this was the perfect tension-breaker. “You look perfectly ridiculous, Q,” he managed. “What the hell is all this?”

Q made a face that creased his sun cream. “I needed to get away from Tanner’s nattering,” said Q, “and M’s obfuscation, and H sector’s ineptitude, and W sector’s constant emailing… you get the picture.” Bond nodded sagely having taken a step back to admire the picture before him. He was surprised to note that Q had hair on his legs. He would have thought Q would have to pass puberty for that to happen. “And since you disappear almost every day only to reappear even more tan than before, I convinced myself that a bit of fresh air and sunshine may not kill me, but even I would require empirical proof. So, here I am.”

Bond shook his head with amusement. “In that case, Q,” he said, “you look fine.”

“Right,” said Q, his eyes darting toward the opening behind him. “The cave of legend, I presume? Does it lead anywhere?” He stooped over and walked right in. Bond resisted the urge to snatch him back from the opening, its entrance now more like a dark maw waiting to clench down on its next victim; the impulse was overwhelming.

“No,” said Bond as he followed after him. They stood in the hollow of its center and faced each other in the gloom. “You see. Just a small space.”

“Perfectly cool in here though,” said Q. “Hello. What’s this?” He moved over to a corner of the cave and peered at the rock at a point above his own head and practically buried in the darkness.

Bond was a killer, tried and trained. He picked up on minutiae, but only if they meant his life or a way to obtain an objective. This cave was no threat, so he hadn’t truly explored it in detail. He was only concerned with its overall dimensions and its level of dampness at high tide. But Q was a detail-oriented person; it was his business to know the specifics. So it was no surprise to Bond that he would be studying something so small as to be overlooked by practically every normal person. “What is it?” he asked.

“I can barely make it out,” he looked to Bond, “I don’t suppose you have a torch, do you?” He did. The light beam made the marking stand out, bright as a beacon. It was blue paint in the shape of a gigantic eye. It was no bigger than a man’s fist, but brilliant blue in the torchlight. “An eye of protection.”

“Isn’t that Egyptian?” offered Bond. “We’re in Greece.”

“It’s the eye of an owl,” said Q, pointing out the rounder shape of the iris and pupil. A jut of rock stood out next to it, curving out from the cave wall and ending in a downward pointing end, sharp and thick. Q murmured: “I wonder…” and moved the light to the other side of the small outcropping. There, but more faint, was a twin to the first. Q stepped back suddenly as if struck. “Look,” said Q aiming the beam at the whole. In the circle of light there peeped out a blue-eyed owl – eyes of paint, sharp thick beak of rock.

“Creative graffiti artist,” remarked Bond. “Bansky would be jealous.”

Q cleared his throat uncomfortably and said: “Let’s get out of here… get some sun on our faces.” He moved quickly to the exit, torch still lit in his hand. Bond followed a moment later, giving the cave wall a curious glance as he passed.

“I’ve been in there a dozen or more times,” he said. “I never noticed that paint before. Then again, this is only the second time I’ve actually used the torch in there. I only planned on using it in case it got too late and I needed to get back after dark.”

Q looked at the torch in his hand and turned it off. He stood as far from the entrance as the cliff face would allow him to, just next to the edge of the lip over the water. He regarded the cave with something like fear. “I don’t think I like it in there, Bond.”

“Did the owl face frighten you that much, Q?” Bond chuckled.

“N-no, of course not,” said Q. It was the most terrible lie Bond had ever heard. He must have looked skeptical of Q’s sincerity because he added: “It’s just that certain unsavory people perhaps frequent this cave for illicit reasons. You never know. You come out for a swim, feel a bit done-in from the sun and the water, and you steal in there for a bit of kip when- bang! You’re set upon by hoodlums.”

Bond listened to this tripe in complete silence. “Do you ever hear yourself when you speak, Q? You sound as if you’re a thousand years old! Hoodlums? Seriously?” Bond took his towel off of his shoulder, his hat from his head, the torch from his hands, the glasses off his face, and pushed him unceremoniously into the water below.

Q gave a small cry before hitting the water and for a split second, Bond thought he might not know how to swim, but when a black-haired head broke the surface with a sputter and a cry of “bastard!” Bond laughed, depositing his things and Q’s on a handy rock and jumped in after his quartermaster.


	3. Chapter 3

Things became almost pleasant after that. Q would check in with headquarters in the mornings, go for a swim with Bond in the afternoons and they would both walk into the small town beyond the church for a bit of supper. Bond could cook a meager meal and Q could make tea, but otherwise they were relatively unskilled in the culinary arts. It was nice to see and hear voices other than their own and, for the first few nights of this change, Bond slept soundly.

But then there was another storm. It came suddenly, as if in a rush to destroy everything in its path. The shutters of the house banged out a frenzied devil’s tattoo in the wind and a pane of the French doors that lead to the sitting room balcony shattered from a tree branch sending glass pieces skittering across the floor.

But that was nothing compared to the war going on inside of James Bond’s mind. The creature was back, but it was hiding its wings, hiding its teeth and eyes behind Q’s familiar face. “Why do you resist me?” it asked him.

_You aren’t real. You’re a monster. Go away. Get out of my head._

“But you love me, don’t you, James?” it asked. Innocent Q stood before him, but there was something off about his eyes. Dark circles swam below them and his face was more gaunt than normal. A small smile played across cracked lips.

_I don’t love you. You aren’t real. Q is real. Stop using his face. I want to see your face. Your true face. Are you afraid?_

“But this is my face, James,” said Not-Q. Q’s visage was closer than ever. Bond could have licked out his tongue against him. He wanted to. He wanted that so badly.

  _You aren’t real. I’m not afraid of something that isn’t real._

“But all I want from you is what you want to give to me,” it purred. “And you do want to give it to me. That is real.” Flashes of Q swimming, droplets of water glistening off of his back, his spine going on for days, a coy smile thrown over his shoulder as he pulled himself from the crystalline waters.

_Go away. Get out of my head._

“You can feel me here in the darkness, can’t you? Hear me breathing right beside you? You need me so badly. You’re even getting hard at the thought.” Moonlight kissed Q’s hair and his face. In repose he looked soft and vulnerable, warm and inviting. And the demon was right: Bond could feel his erection tenting his pants, throbbing for release.

“I could help you with that, you know,” Not-Q said. Hands reached out for him, never touching, not precisely. They hovered a hair’s breadth over his chest, normal-looking hands carving chasms of heat with unseen claws.

_I don’t need your help._

“But you want it,” cooed Not-Q. “You cannot deny your nature.” He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He turned in the darkness to beat a hasty retreat from him, but with the sound of flapping wings, the beast was there before him, tousle-haired and pale. It reached for him, eyes shifting from cool jade to dragon’s fire and back.

_And you cannot deny yours. Even now your eyes betray you. Your greed is getting the better of you. I will never concede. I will never give you what you want. You aren’t real! You aren’t real! YOU AREN’T REAL!_

Bond awoke with a start and Q sat up blinking. He rubbed his eyes with his fists and asked through a yawn: “Again?”

Thunder crashed as the lightning lit the room. “I’m sorry, Q,” he said. “It’s stupid, but I keep having these dreams.”

“About what?” said Q. “A mission?” They both knew the effects of PTSD on the average agent’s psyche, nevermind that of a Double-Oh.

Bond shook his head and got up for a glass of water. “No,” he called out from the kitchen. “Not mission-related in any way.”

“Well, what is it?” asked Q. Bond could tell from his tone that he was irritated. But how does one tell one’s quartermaster that a demon wants to fuck him in his dreams and has almost succeeded in that plan by disguising itself like said quartermaster? It was a question that gave Bond pause.

He took a moment to think as he ran the tap looking for the coldest water possible. He could play it off and pretend that there was nothing to it; that it was all a fanciful dream and the storm probably set him off. He had had his last big nightmare during a storm, so that would at least seem a bit plausible. But this was already his second nightmare. It was stupid for him to deny that there was any kind of a problem – especially considering that he’s already supposed to report to Psych when he returns to MI6. He filled his glass and drank.

“Fuck it,” he said to himself. “I’ll just tell him. Better to him directly than to a shrink back home.”

He walked back into the bedroom and found Q fast asleep. “Nevermind, Q. I’ll tell you tomorrow,” he muttered and drew the duvet over his shoulders protectively. He got in the other side and tried to stay awake.

 

~080~

 

They were on the cliff facing the ocean. The sun dazzled the beads of water on Q’s skin. It was moving from an alabaster to a fine pinky-tan and Q smiled at him. “What is it?” he asked.

“You look like you may have had enough sun,” he said. “Your shoulders and nose are a bit red.”

“Are they?” He ran a hand over his nose, testing the skin there. “Feels alright.”

“Still,” said Bond, reaching for the sun cream. “You can never be too careful.” He put a dollop into his palm and smoothed the stuff over Q’s shoulders and back. He handed Q the bottle and moved him to face away from him. He massaged the lotion into his shoulders first, hands moving confidently downward toward an impossibly small waist. Thin, but wiry, he thought.

He smoothed his hands back up, rubbing and rubbing until all the cream was spent into the tissues: down his upper arms, back along his shoulders, up his neck and into the hairline. “You have the softest hair, Q,” remarked Bond.

“I read somewhere that putting a bit of sun protection in your hair helps too,” said Q. Bond smiled and took his time combing his fingers through Q’s hair, front to back, over and over, luxuriating in the feel, the hair responding with a bright sheen and a wild flair with every pass.

“How’s that?” Bond asked.

Much to his surprise, Q fell back softly against him and looked up through long eyelashes. “Quite relaxing, 007. Thank you.”

Bond turned his body to accommodate him, one leg on either side of Q’s hips. Q sighed. “I have never wanted to admit it, but I have always favored you, 007.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not supposed to. And to be honest, I’d only noticed recently that I’d been doing it. I have found myself holding my breath on your missions. Listening to your every sound over the comm and hoping that you’ll get out alright when you’ve gone off-script. There’s always a thrill with you – an element of the unexpected. I think you’re rather addicting.”

“I just can’t abide by rules that make no sense, Q,” he said. “So many ways to get yourself killed out there and most of them involve following the rules. Sometimes you have to improvise.”

“And when you improvise, I can’t help but get caught up,” Q said. He sighed again and looked up at Bond. “Do you mind that I’m leaning? It’s just more relaxing this way.”

“It’s fine, Q,” said Bond. “These weeks together have been a perfect opportunity for us to get to know one another as people, but we seem to never have taken the time before. It’s been nice.” He looked down at the expanse of soft flesh before him and added: “It’s been odd, but nice.”

“Still upset that there’s no news?”

“Of course. I hate stagnation. All this waiting is terrible. I may go off and start my own war just for something to do.”

“I hate it as well,” said Q. “Although I suppose we’re both adrenaline junkies at heart.”

“I know I am,” said Bond. “I didn’t realize you were.”

“Oh sure,” said Q. “Nothing more thrilling than hacking into a place I’m not supposed to be. Invading and infecting, causing chaos and destruction, leaving things vastly different from what they used to be. It’s all a bit heady just to think about it.” He turned to face Bond, bracing himself with one hand, the other resting lightly on the agent’s chest. “A bit horny too, if I’m honest,” he added, blushing.

Bond smiled and took a chance. The kiss was warm and sweet and held a tang of the sea. “More damage on your laptop before your first cup of Earl Grey-“ he whispered lightly, a shiver running down his spine.

“-gets cold,” finished Q.

“What? Are you cold?” Bond asked, confused.

“Hmm? No. Why?”

“You said something-“ said Bond. “Oh nevermind.” He put the thought out of his head and softly kissed the lips before him. But there was a nagging at the back of his mind; something he was supposed to remember but couldn’t.

“I remember the day we met as though it was yesterday,” said Bond. Q smiled into their next kiss with a hum. “You looked so bloody young. I thought it was a joke at first.”

“I remember,” said Q, kissing his way down Bond’s neck.

“All I could do was stare ahead as you passed over my tickets, weapon, and radio,” said Bond.

“It was all I could do to keep my hands off of you,” said Q. “It was love at first sight, I’m afraid.” Here he blushed again.

“That’s why you chose to pass me my radio separately,” said Bond. “You wanted an excuse to touch me.”

“Damn,” said Q, his forehead resting on Bond’s collarbone. “You’ve rumbled me.”

Bond laughed at that. He pulled Q into another kiss and eyed the cave. “Let’s go in. We’ll lay our towels out and… talk.”

Q cocked a grin at him. “Talking?” he asked. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” He made to plant a sloppy kiss on Bond’s neck and Bond curled over laughing. “Let’s stay here. I like the sun and it’s not as if anyone will see us.”

“Someone out on that ocean could see us,” said Bond, nodding toward the expanse of blue before them. It was so clear, but Bond could barely make out the horizon, the shades of blue were almost identical.

“James,” said Q, “are you really that shy?”

“Well… there is a sense of propriety about me, yes.” Again, something niggled at him. It was as if they had forgotten to lock the door of the cottage. Bond tried to remember if he had.

“Propriety, my arse,” said Q. He sat up on his knees before Bond, his hands resting lightly on the agent’s knees. He looked lovely in the sunshine. His skin was a few shades lighter than golden and it suited him tremendously. His hair whipped about and his eyes were lit up in the sunlight, laughing playfully behind long black lashes. Q leaned in slowly, softly kissing at Bond’s mouth, barely touching, and ending with a lick across his lips, feather light.

Bond felt his breath catch. “Oh Q,” he whispered and leaned in for another. And another. And another. The kisses went on for hours, it seemed. The wind whipped around them but they were ignorant of it even as it caused Q’s fringe to collide with Bond’s forehead, tickling his skin; neither man cared. Slowly, Bond slipped his fingertips beneath Q’s swimming trunks. His skin was clammy cool from the wet fabric and stuttered over his skin as Bond moved his hands lower and lower, taking the material with him. He could feel Q loosen the tie at the front with a pull and the strain of the waistband disappeared, the clothing sliding down to pool at Q’s knees.

Bond knelt up slowly, thanking god for the towel’s cushioning beneath them. He never stopped kissing Q as he loosened his own bathing suit and took them both in hand. Q gasped. Bond grunted. Both men’s hips canted together as Bond stroked them slowly. “Use a bit of this,” said Q. He squeezed some sun cream into Bond’s hand. “Don’t want to burn there, now do we?” Bond grunted his approval and kissed his smirk onto Q’s waiting mouth.

The slick slide was just what was needed and they were both ready to burst in no time at all. “Want more,” panted Q. “To the house? For lube?”

Bond took a moment to think. “No,” he said. “Best if we just… here. Then the house for a shower. Come on, Q. Come for me.”

Q shot him a slightly annoyed look but acquiesced. Bond brought them both to the edge and then pitched them over it, their cries startling seagulls out from their resting places all around them. Q collapsed against Bond’s chest and panted: “Can’t move for a bit. Need to recover to walk. One second, please, James.”

Bond held him and noted that his shoulders were even more pink. That was probably due to their exertion just then, but he wanted to be safe. He pulled up his trunks and helped Q with his. “Let’s get in the cave, Q. You’re burning in this sun.”

He moved to stand and Q gripped him. “No.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Bond. “It’s cooler in the cave, out of the sun. Come on. One little bit of graffiti and you’re terrified.”

“No.”

“There’s no one in there,” he said. “I promise. Besides: I’m a highly-trained weapon, remember?” He pulled Q to his feet and held him by the shoulders. “You’re shivering.”

“I told you, I’m cold,” insisted Q.

“No you didn’t,” said Bond suspicion clouding his features, “You said you weren’t cold. I thought you were but you said you weren’t.”

“So? I am now,” said Q. “And I’m going back.” He picked up his things and walked along the pathway.

Bond watched him leave. He glanced once at the cave before gathering his things and following Q. The opening seemed to glow a dull blue, but that had to be a reflection or trick of his eyes. He shook his head and made his way back to the cottage.

 

~080~

 

“Q?” he called. No one answered. He heard the shower turn on. He dropped his things on the sofa and followed the sound. The door was ajar; he saw the muted outline of Q standing under the spray, naked, vulnerable.

He watched him for a long moment before joining him without permission. He knew this could go one of two ways: either acceptance or rejection. He didn’t think that Q wanted to reject him, but he may do so on principle; Q was like that.

“What are you doing?” asked Q from over his shoulder. His exposed backside was lovely, soapy and wet.

“Conserving water,” replied Bond. “May I?”

Q turned to face him, seemingly unashamed of his nudity. “You’ve made me quite angry, Bond. I’m not sure I should do you any favors.”

“But Q-” he began.

“Perhaps I should be cruel to you? Be cruel due to your disrespect of my wishes.”

“Q,” he said. “It’s a silly cave with a clever painting in it. Nothing to be afraid of. I’ve been in it dozens of times and never saw anyone else about. As a matter of fact, whenever I sleep in there, I never have nightmares.” He smiled to himself and mused: “Perhaps it’s the owl.”

“I hate that cave and I hate that cliff. Why can’t we just stay here in the cottage?” asked Q. He was lathering himself up and Bond was finding it difficult to concentrate. “I’m pink from the sun. My skin itches with it. I want to stay here in the cool of the house.”

“And do what?” asked Bond. “Sulk?”

“Get out of my shower.”

“And if I don’t I’m disrespecting your wishes again, yeah?”

“Absolutely,” said Q. Bond could tell by the look on his face that he was resolute.

“Right,” he said. And stepped out of the spray, toweling himself off. “If you want to tell me what’s really bothering you, I’ll be out here.” He went to the bedroom to dress.

“James?” called Q. Bond was aggravated but turned back in the doorway. Q’s head peeked around the shower door. “I’m sorry. You’re right: I’m freaking out for no reason. It’s a stupid painting in a stupid cave and I need to grow up. It’s just- It gives me the creeps.”

Bond smiled and shook his head. “Alright, Q. You’re allowed an irrational fear or two I suppose. I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ll be out here. Wait for you to finish. Take my shower after yours.”

“Didn’t you want to conserve water?” asked Q.

 

~080~

 

Bond moved the flannel across Q’s back and backside gently, not wanting to irritate the sensitive skin any more than it already was. Q had truly gotten too much sun and it showed. The line of demarcation where his swimsuit ended was a distinct and rosy border against the alabaster of his buttock. Bond trailed the cloth along it, sweeping away sand, sun cream, and pain with the cool shower water. Gooseflesh stood out on both of their skin and Q shivered with the dissonance between his over-warm skin and the tepid water temperature. “Am I hurting you?” asked Bond. His voice was a whisper for no reason he could decipher.

“No,” answered Q in a whisper of his own. It was tinged with the hitched breath of someone obviously in discomfort but unwilling to admit it. Bond chose to let Q have his pride and kept smoothing the cloth gently along him, enjoying the view of soap and water gliding along his curves. Q’s fingers were splayed against the tile as he leaned into the wall, his legs spread, his arse out. Bond couldn’t believe how trusting he looked. His eyes were closed, long black lashes against ruddy cheeks, ruby lips glossy with shower water as the spray cascaded down from overhead. His wild hair was tamped down with the wet and Bond carded a hand through it, bringing his fringe out of his face.

Bond’s mouth found Q’s neck. He nuzzled and sucked kisses into his skin as his hands smoothed along his buttocks and thighs. His teeth nipped at the meeting point between neck and shoulder and Q’s whimpering became a gasp then a moan, his breath a pant. Bond felt his cock fill and the tip trace along the inside of one of Q’s thighs. He tongued at Q’s neck, just under his ear as his hips moved forward and backward in a slight rocking motion, working his foreskin back from the head as his erection hardened.

Eventually, his prick was so erect, he was poking the back of Q’s balls with it. Q let out a rough huff of pleasure at this and widened his stance slightly. Bond had dropped the flannel and was gently gripping Q by the hips, pressing his hardness underneath Q’s crack and against his balls, slowly spiraling them both into a sensual madness.

Bond lifted himself on tiptoe and guided the tip of his dick along Q’s crack, not penetrating, but enough to cause Q to moan and call out his name lasciviously. “Fuck, Q,” said Bond. He was going to so enjoy plunging himself inside this man. As it was, Q’s pert arse was coming further and further toward his hardness, begging through touch for more friction, more contact.

Bond had to taste him. He dropped to one knee and parted Q’s cheeks, licking at the hole, nibbling at the soft flesh of his buttocks, plunging his tongue deep within once Q’s cries of “Fuck me, James,” were pulled from him. Crying out for mercy, Q’s hand shot to the back of Bond’s head, keening for more, willing him to go deeper, yearning for the thick throbbing hardness his cock promised. “I need you inside me, James. Please. Need it. Need it so badly.”

Bond pulled away long enough to mutter: “All in good time, Q.” His strong figures massaged Q’s arse and he continued to tongue his hole savoring every sigh and cry from Q’s lips as the cool water poured down over them both.

“Fuck!” said Q. He slammed his open palm against the tile and hung his head. Sobbing with want, he managed a soft “please” that Bond couldn’t ignore.

Bond nipped at both arse cheeks as he got to his feet. He pressed the whole length of himself to the back of Q, his mouth near his ear, and said: “Do you have any idea how long I’ve thought about you like this?” He slid a strong hand upward and set it gently around Q’s throat. With the other he gripped one of Q’s hips. “Do you know how bloody tempting you are to me?”

“Oh James,” sighed Q. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Bond nuzzled at Q’s neck and smiled. “You little twig, standing there in your stripey jumper and your black-rimmed glasses… All I’ve ever wanted to do was to bend you over a desk in Q Branch and hear you scream my name.”

“And what about me?” asked Q.

“Mmm? What do you mean?”

“What would you do if I bent you over a desk?” asked Q, a glint in his eye, a wicked smile on his lips. “After all, it’s my department. What would you do then, James Bond?”

James couldn’t hold back his laughter. “Give in, I suppose. You are technically my superior. But only just.”

“Then that’s what I want from you tonight,” said Q. He turned, his hands coming up over Bond’s shoulders, tracing fire with his fingertips. “I want to take you from behind. Feel your pulse in my hand as I grip your throat. Remind you as to who’s in charge here.”

Bond felt the flush of desire over his whole body. His cock stiffened with new interest. “You’ll get no argument from me, Q,” he said.

“I’d better not,” said Q, smoothing a hand across his water-slicked hair as the spray caught him. “You should know that I have no objection to spanking you.”

“Now you’re just asking for me to misbehave,” he said as he leaned in and stole a kiss, biting Q’s lip as he pulled off. Q smacked his arse with an open hand, the sound echoing loudly off the tile.

“Obedience, 007,” said Q with a warning glare, “or I will find a way to punish you.”

It was like being threatened by a tiny Pomeranian. Granted, Q was a tiny Pomeranian with access to ruin his life, but it was still adorable. He stood at mock attention, his cock still doing the same. “Ready for your orders, quartermaster.”

Q’s expression was deadpan when he commanded: “Bedroom. Now. Naked. Face in the pillow, arse in the air.” Bond threw him a playful smirk as he turned to do as he was bid. Q took his time turning the water off, toweling himself dry, and he gave the mirror a cursory glance as he passed it… his eyes flashing dragon fire green, his lips pulling back in an over-wide evil grin, showing razor-sharp needle-like teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

Q looked delicious as he dropped his towel and stalked to the bed. Bond watched him until he disappeared out of his view, feeling the bed dip with his weight. Then hands were on him, warm against his cool flesh. A nuzzling nose and soft lips caressed his arse and he sighed with the feel of it. He relaxed his body into the feel of Q as the licking came closer and closer to his sensitive pucker. “Shit, Q,” sighed Bond. “So good.”

Q hummed contentedly as he slathered Bond’s hole with saliva before plunging his tongue deep within him. Bond’s cries of pleasure echoed off the plaster walls and he pressed back against the moist heat of Q’s mouth. He fisted the sheets. He arched his back. He keened and whined. Q’s tongue was so deep it was unbelievable. “Oh God,” moaned Bond. His brain wanted to formulate fuller sentences, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating. He couldn’t communicate his pleasure any other way other than physically.

He felt Q delve even deeper, felt himself opening wider for him. He wondered at the pressure of it and realized that it was a combination of Q’s tongue and his fingers. He felt himself fall apart a bit as the pressure reached his prostate. The sounds that came out of him were barely human and it was wonderful. He vaguely heard Q’s greedy giggle as he fell into the mattress deeper and deeper, his breath hitching and staggered.

“Ready for me, James?” asked Q breathlessly, his voice somehow huskier, deeper than Bond had expected.

“Please, Q,” begged Bond.

“Please what?” urged Q. “Tell me what you want, James. Invite me in. Go on.” His voice was hushed and raspy, audible hunger.

“Take me, Q,” said Bond. He was so ready for the deep pressure of Q’s cock. The wave of want that passed through him was tangible.

“Tell me you want me to fill you up, James,” said Q.

“Fill me,” said Bond. He was behaving like a man possessed, but the delicious pressure of Q’s fingers were still teasing him, gliding over his prostate in a pulsing rhythm that was proving to be incredibly hypnotic. “Fill me,” he said again and this time it was a prayer.

“Tell me you need to have it. Tell me you will give yourself to me,” said Q.

Bond’s eyes snapped open. There was a red flag going off in his head. He was trained to trust his instincts, but there was so much _need_ … so much pressure and scent and _want_ … “Take me, Q. Take all that you want. I’m yours. Please. Just… please.”

He felt the pressure and bore down against it, wanting to be filled, wanting to be branded, to be owned by this beautiful man-

His phone went off on the bedside table. Bond couldn’t ignore anything from headquarters. It was just not within his capabilities. He looked back to Q who seemed lost in the moment and said: “Don’t say a word.” He hit the button.

“007?” asked a voice. Moneypenny.

“Hello, Moneypenny,” he said, biting back a gasp from where Q was nibbling at his shoulder blade and itching to push himself inside of him.

“One moment, James,” she said and he heard the phone click over to M’s voice.

“Hello Commander Bond,” he said. “Do you have me on speaker?”

“Yes,” said Bond, “I’m shaving.”

“Well pick up, will you? I’ve got a new assignment.”

Bond motioned for Q to be quiet as he picked up the phone and put it to his ear. He laid on his back and watched Q sink into the mattress next to him, a beautiful pout on his lips that Bond kissed away with a quiet peck. “Been waiting to hear from you. What’s the plan?”

“I hate to cut your Greek holiday short, but you are needed in Monaco. I’ll let Q explain the logistics as to how you’re to get there and whom you are to contact,” said M.

Bond looked to Q and grinned. He hadn’t minded the debriefing he was getting so far from his quartermaster. This would be a short phone call interruption if they were just sending Q the information. But then something happened that made Bond’s blood run cold. He was looking at the face – the face he knew so well – but the voice that belonged to it was coming from the phone.

“007?” asked Q, coughing before going on, “We have arranged for a flight at 1700 hours for you at the local airport. From there a car will pick you up and carry you to the hotel where the target is located. This is strictly a seek-and-destroy, so all that you need will be provided by the local contact. You’ll know him. He helped with that business in the Maldives last year. After it’s over, report in and come home. We’ll be waiting with open arms.”

M’s voice was back on the line and he asked: “Did you get all of that, 007?”

Bond could only stare at the lazy smile that greeted him from across the pillow. It took all of his training to keep his face and voice steady as he answered. “1700 hours. Got it. I’ll be ready. Thank you.”

“Not at all, Bond. We’ll see you. And good luck,” said Q – the real Q. And if that was the real Q then who – or what – was the thing in his bed with him? He needed to get out of there. He thought of the cave and its aversion to the presence there, the paint on the walls. But first, he had to make certain that he was awake.

As he put the phone back on the nightstand, he turned from the false Q in his bed, his mind frantically racing how he should best determine whether or not he was dreaming this nightmare. Without a word he got up and strode from the bedroom, the earlier urge to fuck completely gone in the face of the lurid dream he may or may not be having.

He deftly grabbed his gun and a shard of broken glass that they had thrown out from the last storm and left the cottage with the thing that was not Q calling out to him from the bed: “James?”

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. He ran naked to the cave, full speed. A storm was gathering again and the wind howled as he rounded the final corner in the path. Sea spray hit him on his right as the cave mouth was on his left and there between the two like a specter was Q. But it wasn’t. And he knew he was dreaming; he had to be because Q’s eyes glowed with witch-fire and his body seemed to expand with his every breath. Something dark unfolded behind him and claws emerged from his fingertips. “What are you?” screamed Bond, holding up his gun and the shard at the same time.

The beast smiled a wicked grin, needle teeth on display. “I go by many names: Lilu, Liderc, Encantado. To you, however, I would be an incubus,” he hissed. “And you owe me your body, James Bond. I will take what is due me.”

“I owe you nothing,” said Bond and fired his weapon at the demon. The bullets ricocheted uselessly off the rocks behind the creature and it laughed.

“I’m afraid you’re on the losing side of this argument, Mr. Bond,” said the Not-Q. The wind howled for him as they stood there awash in sea spray, the hair of the creature whipping around in the wind, its wings half-extended, buffering the air. “You will die tonight, mortal.”

“Not if I have anything to do with it,” said Bond.

“Come to me, James,” said the Not-Q and his voice was everywhere. The wind was his servant and whispers of “come James” and “give yourself to me” and “you are mine” and “you will love me” reverberated all around him like a canyon echo, like a voice in a church, like the thunder that cracked the sky overhead. “There is nowhere to go,” said the monster.

Bond threw down his gun. If he was going to die, then let him die with a smile on his lips and blood on his hands. He held the shard aloft and ran headlong into the creature, expecting to tackle him or – at worst – come up against a solid wall of flesh he could rend open with the jagged edges of his impromptu weapon.

He managed neither. He passed straight through the creature, it disappearing and reforming like solid smoke before his eyes. Bond found himself pressed against the rocks behind the creature and spun expecting an attack. There was none. The monster simply watched him exhaust himself with a bemused smile upon its lips.

Bond slashed out. The creature caused its midsection to vanish, allowing Bond’s hand and the shard to pass through harmlessly. He slashed again in the other direction, a vicious motion and strength behind it, but the result was the same.

Then the creature laughed; if the color black could have a sound, that was it.

“You don’t understand what I am, do you?” asked the monster.

“Whatever you are, you have some gall using his face,” said Bond.

“But it was your desire that created this face,” said the creature. The eyes dulled, the wings retracted, and in an instant he was face to face with the familiar human visage. Lightning lit up the man that stood before him and if Bond had to swear it on a stack of bibles that this was the real Q, he would have. But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. And in the next lightning flash he was gone, replaced with the winged horror who wanted his life force through sex. “You wished this face into being, James. And if it will help, I can tuck my wings away again and be him for you. Let your last moments be spent in the comfort of your lover’s arms.”

“The last moments of my life will not be spent with a lie,” Bond spat. “Go to hell.”

“I’ve been,” said the creature flatly. “I prefer this plane of existence. I prefer soft warm people to dine on. I prefer to hear them sigh with pleasure just before their soul becomes mine. It’s not a wholly unpleasant way to go, James. Let me help you find Paradise.” Here the creature held out a talon-tipped hand and for a moment Bond was actually tempted. He didn’t have training enough to fight this kind of dark magic, but he had the strength. He shook his head, clearing it of the voices, focusing on the sea and the sound of the wind, the thunder and lightning, and the light rain that began to whip at his skin.

Bond feinted toward the creature when his hand came up suddenly and he felt the shard make clean contact with the hand that was offered. The high-pitched scream of the creature was a satisfaction all its own and Bond acted quickly, diving headlong into the cave, willing the creature to follow, wanting his death to be worth something more than just another body floating naked in the water. The cave was once his refuge, now it could be his sepulcher.

The sand floor inside the cave was freezing cold and Bond shivered. The creature stood in the cave entrance and called in to him. “I have been alive for two thousand years, James Bond. I can remain for another two thousand. You will not outlast me. You will give yourself to me and I will go on. You are mortal. You will die anyway. Why not die after having the greatest pleasure of this life?”

“You want my arse so damn badly, you can come in here and take it,” said Bond looking at the shard in his hand. “You forget. I am stubborn and I have the means to harm myself. You can’t take the soul of someone when they’re already dead, can you?”

There was silence for some time outside the cave as the creature considered its options. All that remained were the sounds of the sea and the storm. In the cave everything was magnified and Bond stared at the faint blue on the walls, willing the moonlight to be made brighter so that the fierce owl that he knew was there would be able to give him courage in these, his last moments. He was steeling himself to take his own life. And he was going to do it stark naked and alone. He had never been more terrified, but he tamped it down, his training providing the solid ground he needed to face his situation.

The creature had made its decision. The soft moonlight that managed to get past the creature’s silhouette stirred and then blacked out completely, the wings of the terror shutting out all natural light. But Bond could see the glint of its teeth and its eyes were casting green shadows along the cave walls. “Are you ready to die, human?” it growled.

“I’m ready to kill something,” said Bond. “Me or you.”

“No, James,” it cooed. “You want things to go my way. It’ll be more pleasant. Believe me.”

“You’re a walking, talking lie,” said Bond. “Come any closer and I’ll kill you.”

The incubus smiled and reached for him. Bond slashed at the proffered limb and once again found smoke. He struck again and again, each time he did, the creature vanished and reformed, but with every stab and parry, he stepped forward until the creature was moved back toward the wall with the hated imagery.

_If I can just get you to…_

Bond gripped the shard with both hands and raised them above his head. He leapt toward the monster who was grinning in that ridiculous manner, wings outspread, claws ready to catch. It was a risky move, but they were dancing and so far Bond had led that dance. There was just one more move he needed the beast to make-

And a scream pierced the air, shaking the rock and causing Bond to stumble backward, dropping the shard and covering his ears. He fell to the sand and peeked up at the incubus which had managed, in its efforts to escape Bond’s downward blow, to leap up and backward, reforming itself in just the right place to impale itself upon the beak of the protective owl. Its wings pressed uselessly back against the cave wall in an attempt to push free from the surface, but the downward curve of the sharpened beak held the creature fast by the torso. Q’s visage faded completely and was replaced with a hideous mask of devilry, frustration, and pain.

Bond watched it struggle in utter fascination, the wind howling, the storm picking up, the thing’s wings beating a fierce tattoo against the rock face, the screams of it in its death throes. Just before it gasped its last, it affixed its eyes on Bond and said: “May you be damned for this. May you rot in Hell!” Then it was motionless and dissipated leaving only a faint trace of sulfur on the sea breeze.

“You first,” said Bond grimly and he left the cave, walking through the storm and along the path, his feet sore from the pebbles and stones, his body soaking wet from the rain. His hand was cut in three different places, one that would require stitches, but he didn’t care. The only thing he wanted to do was to go home and never sleep again.


	5. Epilogue

“How is he?” asked Q.

“As well as can be expected,” replied M. They sat in M’s office at MI6 and discussed Bond. He had not been well when he came in from the Greek job and they were all concerned that their best Double-Oh had cracked up from all the solitude. Q was so concerned that he had come back to work after hours to catch M alone and have this talk.

“Does he still not want to see me?” asked Q.

“I’m afraid so,” said M. “And from what he’s managed to divulge to the boys in Psych, you’d better not force the issue.”

Q was silent for a long moment and M felt badly for him. M couldn’t understand Bond’s aversion to him upon coming home. He treated his quartermaster not only like a stranger, but like a mortal enemy. It didn’t make any sense. Surely a few down weeks in the Greek Isles couldn’t turn a man this barmy. If anything, Bond needed the holiday. But perhaps, M thought, perhaps he was the type for whom holidays would be nightmares. For a moment he sat brooding over his end-of-day whiskey.

“D’you know what I think?” Q said.

“Hmm?”

“I think he needs an assignment,” he said. “You said he’s finally been sleeping on his own, yes?”

“Yes,” said M. “But I’m not sending an agent out who’s not field ready.”

“But perhaps in order for him to be field ready he needs to actually go out in the field?” suggested Q.

“Maybe you’re right,” said M. It was a thought that had been niggling him too.

“And,” said Q, looking as though he were pushing an envelope, “I think I should be the one to kit him up for the mission.”

M gave Q a long hard look that seemed the beginning of many sentences wrapped in silence. “I’ll run it past Psych. We’ll see what they say.” _Best to be careful_ , he thought.

But Q nodded, seemingly satisfied. “The thing he needs is to get back on the horse. If he’s allowed to dwell, he’ll just turn it all over in his mind. It’d be a shame to have to retire him over all this- this- whatever it is.”

M hated seeing a Double-Oh like Bond laid low. It was almost a crime. “I agree. I’ll speak to Psych first thing.”

“Cheers,” said Q. He got up from his seat and made a curt little bow of his head toward M. “I’ll see you in the morning, M.”

“Yes, Q,” said M. “And don’t worry. Bond’s tough. He’ll pull through. And… I think you’re right. He needs his work. A man like him is nothing without his work.”

“True,” said Q and closed M’s door behind him.

Q made his way to the lifts and entered the car when it came. He turned and faced the door as it closed, thinking about Bond and how he was going to help him, how badly he wanted him. He would never have revealed that to M, of course, his wanting Bond. That was something he couldn’t tell anyone at MI6. Just like he couldn’t tell them about the man he saw in the reflection of the doors as he descended down to Q Branch’s level: the one with the eyes made of dragon’s fire and revenge.


End file.
